The naked edge

15

Even when viewed from a wooded hilltop a half mile away, the farmhouse, barn, and outbuildings were obviously in disrepair. As the sun rose, Cavanaugh, Jamie, and Rutherford lay on cold ground behind red-leaved bushes, using binoculars to peer down past the stubble of a cornfield. In the mid-distance, a dirt road went from right to left. Beyond was a field of wild grasses that belonged to one of the few cherished places in Cavanaugh's memory of his youth, the farm where he had spent so many wonderful Sundays. At least, the Sundays had once seemed wonderful. Not because of what he had learned about making knives. The knives hadn't been as important to him as the time he'd spent with the person he once considered-and believed would always be-his closest friend.

With the sun behind them, they didn't need to worry about light reflecting off their binoculars, signaling their location. Even so, Cavanaugh took care that his were shielded.

"The place looks deserted," Jamie said. "Porch needs paint. Roof needs new shingles. The barn's listing."

"When Carl and I visited there, the old man kept it in perfect shape. He never let age slow him down."

"Sounds like someone I'd like to have known," Jamie said.

"I doubt John here would have. Not the way Lance was always cussing."

Rutherford looked amused. "Well, there's cussing, and then there's cussing."

"This was the latter."

"According to the local FBI office, after the old man died, an English professor from the university in Iowa City bought the place," Rutherford said. "Gentleman farmer sort of thing. Sold some of the land to the neighbors. Leased out the rest."

"Yeah. I remember. When I was a teenager." Cavanaugh felt hollow. So much had happened in the meanwhile. Except for Jamie, so much of it had been painful.

"Four years ago, the professor retired and moved to Arizona." Lying on his stomach, Rutherford scooped up black dirt and studied it. "That's when Bob Loveless bought the place."

"Seems like Duran had a yen for the good old days," Jamie said.

Rutherford kept examining the dirt in his hand. "Awfully rich soil. Excellent loam. Breaks apart easily."

"Since when do you know about soil?" Cavanaugh asked.

"My dad was a farmer in Arkansas. I grew up, helping him plow and plant. What he wouldn't have given for soil like this."

"You've got all kinds of secrets, John."

"None like yours, Aaron."

"How strange it feels to be called that."

"Did the local FBI office talk to the neighbors?" Jamie asked. "Is there any indication that Duran actually lived there?"

"Someone matching Duran's description lived there off and on four years ago. A few of the neighbors dropped by to welcome him. They remember he was polite but that he didn't encourage socializing. When he smiled, it was sort of distant."

"Yeah, that's Carl," Cavanaugh said.

"As near as they could tell-tire tracks in snow, that sort of thing-he seemed to be there only a week or two at a time."

"So this is where he went between assignments," Jamie said to Cavanaugh, "the same as you went to Jackson Hole. This was his home."

"Close to Iowa City and Hafor Drive, where his real home was when he was a kid." Three houses up the street from mine, Cavanaugh thought. He remembered the two-story homes along the street. Most were painted an idealized white. Big front windows. Thick bushes. Luxuriant flower beds. Lush lawns. Again, he felt hollow.

"Then three years ago, according to the neighbors, he pretty much stopped coming," Rutherford told them. "That's when the place started looking worn down."

"Three years ago." Cavanaugh nodded. "After Carl got fired and wound up working for that drug lord in Colombia."

"The postman who drives this route says Bob Loveless gets magazines and bills. Renewal forms. Advertisements. Things like that."

"And tax forms," Cavanaugh said. "He needs to keep paying his property taxes, or else the county will take the farm. We need to assume someone comes here to check if there's mail and to forward it. Maybe the same person who pays his taxes."

"Someone we'd like to talk to," Rutherford concluded. "The mail gets delivered late in the afternoon. Yesterday, when you told us this was the address we wanted, the local FBI office had just enough time to intercept the postman and arrange for him to leave some advertisements in the box. Agents have been watching the place since then. So far, there's been no sign of activity in the house and nobody's picked up the mail. We don't dare go in there until someone stops at the mailbox. Otherwise, we might scare the courier away. We'll just need to lie here and wait."

"Maybe not as long as you think." Jamie pointed.

To the right, a dust cloud appeared, moving steadily to the left along the dirt road. Through his binoculars, Cavanaugh saw a gray SUV approaching the mailbox.

Rutherford spoke into a walkie-talkie. "Everybody stay in place until we see what we've got."

The SUV drove closer, continuing from right to left. Cavanaugh's pulse increased, although he was oddly conscious of the emptiness between heartbeats.

"Steady," Rutherford said into the walkie-talkie.

The SUV appeared to go slower as it neared the mailbox. Despite the dust the car raised, the sun reflected off the driver's window. Braced on his elbows, Cavanaugh concentrated so much that he leaned forward, trying to get closer to the car.

It passed the mailbox and continued down the road.

No one spoke for a moment.

"If that was the courier, maybe he or she sensed something was wrong and kept going," Jamie wondered.

"Maybe," Rutherford said. "Or maybe it's just someone driving into town."

Another cloud appeared on the road, this one caused by a red pickup truck that drove from left to right. It sped past the mailbox, almost obscuring it with dust. The faint drone of the engine drifted away.

A minute later, it was a blue sedan that came from right to left.

Cavanaugh felt an increased sense of being stuck in time while the world sped toward disaster. He thought of Brockman, who should have been in New Orleans by now, organizing Global Protective Services agents. Several times the previous night, Cavanaugh had tried to contact him on his cell phone. No response. He'd tried Brockman's home phone. Again, no response. Rutherford had called the FBI office in New Orleans to see if Brockman had checked in. No sign of him.

Once more, Cavanaugh pulled out his cell phone, but this time, instead of trying to call Brockman, he pressed the numbers for Global Protective Services, intending to send an agent to Brockman's apartment, only to cancel the call when he stared toward the road beyond the field and saw the blue car stop at the mailbox.